A Struggle of Blood
by Dracones
Summary: Stannis sits besieged by snow and foes outside Winterfell. Cersei stands alone in King's Landing. Two Wolves and a girl seek their revenge. An army waits outside Mereen's walls, and events continue to move, to twist and to turn, as the will and blood of them all is put to the test against one another.
1. Barristan

**This is my first proper A Song of Ice and Fire fic, a continuation of and/or sequel to A Dance with Dragons. I'll be adhering to the way things are in the books as much as I can, but hopefully this fic will be unique and accurate, as well as a good read!**

**Hope you enjoy!**

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**The Hand of the Queen.**

The Yunkai'i were throwing slaves at Mereen's walls for the best part of half a day before they stopped. By that point, teams of Mother's Men had been assembled in different parts of the city to dispose of the corpses fast. A pile of them was amassing in the harbour.

A messenger had rode up to the gates to tell them that they would do it again at the same time the next day, and the day after that, until the surrender of the city.

In the harbour, Ironborn ships sat. It was a blessing and a curse; though they had captured a full fifty of their enemies' ships that had blockaded the harbour, and set the rest alight or to flight, their captain and leader, Victarion, was yet another suitor for the Queen, who was missing without trace, and they could easily ally with the Yunkai'i and reinstate a new blockade with better sailors to do so, something Barristan would not allow to happen.

"Your king sends you?" He inquired of the Captain.

"Euron Greyjoy, the Crow's Eye, was elected at our Kingsmoot. There was support for me, though, and the Iron Fleet is mine alone. He intends to marry her, and to wield the power of dragons, but he has allowed me the chance to do both and I shall. I have the strength to do so. What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger."

"All well and good, but I must warn you, taming the dragons is a fool's task. A Dornish Prince attempted to do so but four days past. He was burnt, and died in agony. Unless you have a better plan, I-"

Victarion pulled out a horn, old, ornate, and with an ominous air. Barristan stared at it in silence as the other man spoke. "This horn was taken by Euron, a relic of Valyria. The glyphs around it speak of dragons, fire, and blood. It burnt at a man who blew it, and it is named Dragonbinder."

Barristan frowned. "And you intend to use it?"

"Aye, the dragons shall be mine, if the runes are to be believed. And so shall the Queen."

"If she was not burned by Drogon, possibly."

"Have you not heard the tales of her rebirth from a pyre with her dragons hatched? The way I hear it, the Dothraki would say it so. She cannot burn, Ser Queensguard. Not with fire."

"Then tell me, Iron Captain, knowing of this horn, could she not use it, unburnt by its power, to fully control all the dragons? If this horn does not grant control of dragons, merely indicates Taragyen blood and abilities, your quest is in vain."

This gave Victarion pause. The man's eyes narrowed. "It is a possibility. But even so, I have brought ships and men, and control of her dragons for her, and she would do well not to refuse me."

"How so? The Queen has been known to refuse suits before."

"She loves her people, and hates slavery, and slavers are camped outside your walls. I have broken this blockade. I can break your siege with you too."

Barristan remained passive. "How?"

Victarion grinned. "With the iron price."

Two hours later, Barristan was mounted, armoured, and ready. The best six squires if the twenty-six he'd trained were saddled behind him, clad in some armour on the vital places. The Stormcrows were mounted behind Barristan's six, with Unsullied behind them, armed and armoured. Grey Worm stood beside Barristan, ready to give orders. The company of Mother's Men would be staying in the city. The Brazen Beasts were another part of the plan.

"Orders, Ser?" Grey Worm asked.

"You know them. At the signal, we charge, and show Yunkai our strength. Destroy the trebuchets. They have ended too many lives. And kill the enemy sellsword leaders, but take the Yunkai'i leaders alive."

Grey Worm nodded, and returned to his troops, spreading the word amongst them.

It was not long until the horn sounded, and the five hundred-odd cavalry led the eight thousand Unsullied into battle.

The Yunkish forces were shoddily arranged and worse armoured. About four separate large sections of tents, arranged likely by sellswords, Yunkish, cavalry, and maybe infirm or those suffering of the Pale Mare. There were no flags, divisions, stakes.

The actual soldiers were rushing out of them; a mismatch of troops that looked to come from everywhere and to be going everywhere too, as half of them rushed towards Barristan and his men, charging out of the city with its backdrop of smoke of burnt bodies that the slavers had thrown them rising from the harbour, others raced towards the shoreline to combat the Ironborn that had landed along the shoreline, the Brazen Beasts within their holds emerging to fight too. Victarion had followed the plan, then; the Dragonbinder horn was blown, as the signal for the attacks on both fronts, and it had made an unforgettable noise in pitch and in volume.

Steady on his seat, Barristan's charge met the undignified enemies quickly. Regardless of numbers, he and his squires were mounted, armed, armoured, and prepared, with the Stormcrows at their backs experienced in such things. His sword bit deep, to left and right and left again, he deflected a blow from left and from right he ducked and killed his opponent with a backhanded swing and then he was onto the next, who he ran down. It was the dream of knights, the battle-lust that outweighed that for a woman and drove many a man more wild than love ever did. It was the result of training, the dream; hours of sweat exchanged for blood, and glory.

The Queensguard knight might have been old, but bold he was still, and he did not slow his charge until he'd broken through to the tents. By then, both the Unsullied and Stormcrows and the Ironborn and Brazen Beasts had driven most of their enemies back to the boundaries of the camp, and many were fleeing. They would not get far. Another group of Unsullied, a thousand strong, had circled around the camp and the fighting to destroy the trebuchets, and they were on their way to intercept most of those that ran for it. Barring that, if an alliance could be made, the Ironborn could take Yunkai and burn it to the ground, if necessary, within a week's turn.

Of the six squires, none were unharmed, but none were dead. The Red Lamb and one of the three brothers had injuries to the torso, but all the others were relatively minor, and Barristan suspected that at least one of those two was better than it looked.

Barristan had them conduct a search of the campsites for any leaders or men that had stayed behind, to treat with. They found almost no life; those cravens who would not join a fight were not likely to remain for the aftermath when it went disfavourably. The Second Sons were found, who had not joined the fight for political reasons, or so Brown Ben Plumm claimed. More was to be explained later, he promised. The Windblown, too, had accepted Barristan's terms for Pentos, and had not taken part.

The enemy's retreat fast became a rout. Barristan looked on as the Unsullied and Ironborn and Brazen Beasts broke their enemies, pursued them, and hunted them down. There was no mercy for slavers, or the oath-breaking Yunkish that had surrendered peacefully mere months previous.

Robert had showed mercy at the Trident, allowed Barristan his life. Aerys showed none to the Starks, escalating the war that did not have to be. But the Yunkish were broken now, with no bannersmen or allies; and with their leaders captive they would be making none soon.

Many of the sellsword companies were more or less intact, the Second Sons having not joined battle, and the Long Lances having, in an attempt to avoid the known prowess of the Unsullied against horsemen, attempted to circle around and get at the Ironborn; upon the dispatching of a company of a thousand Unsullied to cut them off, they had backed away and not given battle at all. They remained in position, possibly waiting for an envoy to treat with.

Barristan did not deny them such, and under the threat of the Unsullied and the promise of Westerosi gold, they quickly came to an agreement.

The Company of the Cat, on the other hand, had been more or less destroyed.

The captives were placed in cells before sunset, the diseased were left in place with the healers that had been there, and the enemy bodies were being piled for burning.

"We can talk and arrange and plan and execute on the morrow, my friends," Barristan said to the company leaders and captains that gathered before him, "but an old man needs must sleep, else he collapse before his Queen's return." And sleep he did, as the pyres of bodies lit the night and friends and allies revelled in victory.


	2. Asha

**In this book, I'll be following the sneak peak at the end of my copy of A Dance With Dragons, in which it is agreed that Theon should be executed by Stannis, in the Northern way, in a nearby Godswood. **

**Also, the planned betrayal by the Karstarks is revealed, Stannis signs a deal with the Iron Bank, and it is agreed to send Julian Massey will return with the Braavosi banker to Braavos and the free cities to purchase mercenaries for Stannis's cause. He would also take the fake Arya to her "brother" at the wall, though they had not left the camp to do so yet.**

**Hopefully the way everything is set up here seems realistic to the book's indications, and hopefully, of course, you all like it!**

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**Asha**

The Karstark reinforcements had barely had time to settle in, and Theon's blood was drying on Stannis's blade, when word came from the scouts of enemies advancing from Winterfell, a few hours away.

More detailed reports came later, saying that the riders bore the banners of the Freys and the Manderlys, and that the Freys were at the van; weak Southron horses floundering, breaking a trail for the Manderlys, whose Northern garrons allowed them to comfortably laugh at the backs of the Freys, who they outnumbered.

Stannis held his cavalry (mainly Karstark cavalry, none of his landed, horseless knights,) around to the side of their ramshackle ramparts, ready to flank. Infantry stood ready behind and around a barricade of trees, spears prepared. Stannis himself stood the barricade, Lightbringer sheathed at his side.

It was a clear day, but cold, and the snow on the ground was hardened and brittle. It mattered not to Asha, whose prison at the top is the little outpost tower provided an excellent view.

She had asked leave to fight, for Stannis, but he himself turned her down. "We do not ask the iron price for freedom, Miss Greyjoy. We ask for loyalty, and I fear that you cannot give me. You would not if I held a sword to your throat, nor would you in the face of attack. You remain under protection."

Stannis, Asha reflected, inspired neither loyalty not disloyalty. In a way he deserved both. He was not friendly to the men, but he led them, fairly. He was stubborn, would not back down; risky, but not unrewarded, and somewhat admirable, but nonetheless no-one would have wanted to be in Storm's End under siege when he was in control and eat rats.

He was an odd King.

Balon had been as tough and dignified, perhaps, but less rigid and calm. Euron was as proud, but more loud, and inspiring in that way too. The support he rallied was unnerving. He had drowned claims for both Asha and Victarion easily and unforgettably; his own, however, seemed just words to Asha.

In the distance, a mass of horses and men came into view. Asha could tell which were the Northmen and which weren't just from the horses that rode ahead of the companies and the furs worn over their armour. The barricade was sighted, and the Frey swords were drawn, horses spurred on. The Manderlys drew back slightly, and a few commands were shouted. Their cavalry split in two and went to the flanks before they lowered their spears and charged after the Freys.

From Theon's information, that would be all the cavalry in Winterfell. It was expected that the Freys and the Manderlys would attack separately, as there had been strife between them; it was unexpected that they would even begin to contemplate working together. Possibly the threat of Stannis's forces preyed on the minds of the thousand Freys and the one thousand five hundred men from White Harbour.

Alys Mormont stood to Asha's right, looking over the forces arranged before them. Stannis's knights stood the front lines with a thousand others. They were barricaded, but the enemy had numbers and momentum. It would be a close call.

Snow was kicked up by the hooves of the Frey horses, as they struggled to pick up speed. Their men charged in their wake, nearly as fast as the horses floundered in the snow. Ser Hosteen Frey headed the knights that formed the core of the assault, discernible by his two squires and loud yells.

Stannis drew Lightbringer, and it reflected off the snow beautifully.

A second later, the few archers in the forces fired. One of Hosteen's squires fell, as did a number of other knights, horses, and cavalrymen of the two to three hundred that were charging towards them. Mayhaps twenty to thirty lay dead.

Three more flights were loosed, taking the total of horsemen down to about a hundred and eighty. Hosteen led still. The six hundred foot behind them parted to avoid the corpses, and ran on.

From her perch, Asha spied Stannis's cavalry beginning to circle the barricade, but they would be unseen from the ground. The archers didn't get the chance to fire again, as the horsemen were too close to the barricades. They remained in position to try to repel the Frey infantry, attempting to do so by shooting over the heads of their allies and their enemies. Some found their marks, as the Manderly cavalry came up behind and to either side of the Freys, matching their pace.

When the cavalry met the barricade, Asha wished she was there, axes at her side. Her hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly.

Ser Hosteen himself had met Stannis's sword, at the centre of the lines, but his horse was cut from him and when he slowly regained his feet, after jumping off the doomed animal, Stannis was upon him with a vengeance, having left Hosteen's second squire bleeding and fallen on the way. Hosteen was hard-pressed to defend himself against the King's wrath, as his balance was lost and the terrain was not good for regaining such.

Along the line, maybe half of the horses had fallen to spears at the first meeting, as the remaining cavalry were set upon by units of spearmen and unable to regroup.

So caught up in the blood of the assault was Asha that it took a horn from the attackers' direction to make her tear her eyes away; that, and an exclamation from Alys.

The cavalry of the Manderlys had converged on the Frey infantry from behind and around, a crushing pincer movement. Even as Stannis's cavalry pulled around the barricades to meet the Freys a scant few hundred metres away, Asha could see their coming demise, attacked from both sides.

By the time she looked back to the barricade, a scant twenty of the Frey cavalry had neither died not surrendered, and the sight of Ser Hosteen's head raised into the air by Stannis caused those to throw their weapons down soon enough.

By then, the Frey infantry were pushing back against the Manderly cavalry, and mounting a cohesive defence; at which point they were taken from the rear by the Karstark men under Stannis's banner. It was already looking to be a crushing victory.

Within an hour, the counts were made. Of two thousand five hundred men on the barricade, just a hundred and twenty-eight had died. A scant thirty of the five hundred Karstark cavalry had died, compared to seventy of the Manderly's six hundred. The Manderlys suffered no infantry losses. A hundred and sixty Freys had surrendered, including forty cavalry. The rest were dead, along with a hundred and twenty horses, including irreparable injuries resulting in hasty executions.

Though Asha hadn't expected to be privy to Stannis's counsels, he spoke to Manderly with her as company.

"Lord Wyman Manderly." Stannis was cordial. "Your men have fought alongside mine today, yet I have received word that, among other things, you have declared for the Boltons, and that you hoisted the head and hands of mine own Lord Hand of the King, Davos Seaworth, Lord of the Rainwood and Admiral of the Narrow Sea. Is this correct?"

"No, Your Grace." Manderly had rather a few less chins than he was reputed too, but it seemed that, as several had been cut through recently, that was not to his credit.

_Too fat to sit a horse could barely sit a longship, _Asha thought vindictively. Of course, she had none now; burnt by Stannis's Northmen as they lay at anchor.

"You know, of course, that lying to your rightful King on matters of the state is considered treason an offence punishable by death. Continue."

"I know so, Your Grace." Lord Too-Fat-To-Sit-A-Horse glanced around, as if for a chair, but resigned to the fact that there was but one in the room. "Very well. I did not, in fact execute your Lord Hand, merely another man with a common face who had been convicted of thievery. I cut off the first joints on his right hand, too, to add to the deception. It was taken as a declaration to Bolton's side, and thus I was welcomed with open arms into Winterfell. I would sooner have assisted you from within the walls, but Lord Bolton had his say after the Freys wounded me."

As the Lord gestured to his chins, Stannis inquired sharply, "And what would you have me believe happened to my Lord Hand, Lord Manderly? Have you brought him along?"

"Nay, my King, I gave him a ship and I bid him sail to Skagos, to find the true claimant to the seat of Winterfell."

Asha spoke up, drawing Manderly's attention. "Eddard Stark's youngest male heirs were killed by my brother Theon Turncloak, his daughters missing or in Winterfell; a far cry from Skagos. Unless you claim the Freys brought the Young Wolf north, alive,-"

"No, Asha Greyjoy, I do not. Your brother did not kill Bran and Rickon Stark. It is Rickon Stark of whom I speak, who as far as I am aware was last seen by a young boy who had served at Winterfell and was traumatised mute by the killings made there by the Bolton bastard. He hid in the Godswood, climbed a tree; after, he heard voices below. Two Starks, Bran and Rickon, a simpleminded stableboy, the two heirs to Greywater Watch, Meera and Jojen Reed, and a captured wildling, female, whose name he cannot spell. He said that the group split into two; the stableboy, the Reeds, and Bran Stark headed beyond the Wall, while the wildling and Rickon were headed North, likely to Skagos."

"North of the Wall is a wasteland."

"Not so. There are many secrets there beyond simply ice and snow. The children of the forest, the others, the old gods, and the first men; all began there, and there, all were at their strongest. Magics live there still; the latest reports from the Watch state that the Others have been increasing their activity, giants and mammoths have been sighted, skinchangers or wargs noticed; surely you have heard of such, as you were there not so long ago. There are more powers North of the North than in most other worldly regions, at least in Westeros, combined. The blood of the First Men runs in the Starks; Bran may learn there." Manderly's conviction did little for Asha, but she did not know these Northern gods.

Stannis took up the questioning, giving Asha a harsh look for interrupting. "And Rickon to Skagos, you say... It is a big island. Davos is to search it for months, then, if what you say is true, and on what ship? Some fishing cog I expect, from what little I've heard of White Harbour's strength at sea."

Lord Wyman smiled then. "The flagship of mine own fleet. I have been building, you see, preparing for war; the Iron Islands may be the force on the West Coast, My Lady," he addressed Asha, "but the East may end up just as important, particularly with someone like Davos to lead it, Your Grace. I would wager that a better planned joint assault on King's Landing would succeed is both yourself and Lord Davos had a hand in the planning. And they have lost their Imp."

Stannis considered Manderly. "I shall take you on your word, My Lord, but I must request that you swear your service to me, such as it is, in all it's capacity, before I allow your men to remain in my camp."

Lord Manderly swore without issue.

Asha inquired about what had happened to Mors Umber outside the walls of Winterfell, and found that the green boys had managed to beat a hasty retreat with Theon and Arya while the Freys held the Manderlys up trying to see through the snow and to warm up. Manderly scouts had ignored sightings of the Umber camp, and the Freys were subsequently flummoxed by the "ghosts of the North."

There was also more news from Winterfell. After the young Stark girl was lost, Ramsay Snow the Bolton Bastard had been said to want to reclaim her from Stannis himself. It was likely that he would be leaving Winterfell soon with as many men as he could muster; either heading to Stannis, though it was likely that the Freys and the Manderlys would be able to defeat him and Ramsay would win no battle there, or going North to Castle Black.

It transpired that Ramsay had sent Jon Snow a letter threatening and daring him to combat. And from what was known of Ramsay, he would not back down from his own challenge.

Wyman had then had an odd request. "Might I, with Your Grace's permission, be allowed to see the Stark girl? She was hidden for much of the time at Winterfell, besides the wedding, and she did not stay long for that. She was in her youth said to have the Stark look, and Eddard's eyes, yet none of these expectations proved valid or invalid at Winterfell."

"You suspect a fake, Lord Wyman?"

"Indeed. Arya Stark was compared to Lyanna Stark many times, both in look and temperament. This girl, sent north by the Lannisters, no less, has no spirit whatsoever."

"Had they broken her..." Stannis mused.

"It might be expected in such a situation," the Lord of White Harbour conceded, "but to change a girl's look and manner is an odd feat indeed, and I would check."

Manderly had made an odd sight, to be sure, leaning over the young girl's small frame after she was brought in, like some odd walking whale. Words spouted from his mouth, too, as if from a blowhole, accompanied by no small amount of spittle.

"A northern face, to be sure... Hair close enough, yes, but the jaw... The brow, now... Neither are prominent enough to be properly Stark, not set or stern, this face is delicate. Look up, girl, up! ... The eyes are wrong. Not grey, but brown." Here Manderly paused. "Answer quickly, girl. How old are you?"

"Fif- Twel-"

"Fifteen, then. Your Grace, the Greyjoy Rebellion was twelve years ago, was it not?"

"It was," Stannis replied.

"By the end of it, Eddard Stark was rushing to win all the faster, so as he could return to his newborn second daughter. Twelve years old, Arya Stark should be. This is not her." With surprising speed, Wyman spun to face the girl. "Now. Who are you?"

The weakling was crying, whether of joy or relief or sadness, as she sobbed out, "Jeyne, Jeyne Pool. I was a friend of Sansa's. Don't kill me for lying, please. They would have killed me for the truth."

It was Stannis, in his own way, who comforted the girl. "The truth is always appreciated and welcomed, Jeyne. You shall not be killed."

Stannis had seemed momentarily soft to Asha then, but the moment soon enough passed. The girl had been led away by a pair of knights, to try to recover and to be cared for.

It was only then that Asha finally discovered why she had been allowed to remain in Stannis's presence for the meeting. After the other proceedings, the King had got straight to the point. "Lady Asha."

"Your Grace," Asha replied, quelling her instincts on replying antagonistically in the hope of retaining her unburnt and fully capitated body.

"i have thought much on what to do with you. Your crimes against the North and the Kingdom are not so numerous nor drastic as your brother's, but I cannot allow them to go unpunished. It seems to me that harm done wrongly to the North and the rest of my Kingdom could be repaid by doing the same harm twice over to its enemies. Would that be agreeable to you?" queried Stannis.

"I find any plan that involves my head remaining on my shoulders agreeable, Your Grace."

Stannis simply nodded and turned to Manderly. "You have no experienced captains of war galleys in your fleet, am I correct? My Hand notwithstanding."

"None as yet, Your Grace, but I was intending to hire sellsails potentially, or merely some of their important crew members," Manderly explained.

Asha hadn't expected what was to come from Stannis's mouth next before he started to say it, but the moment he started she realised that it was perfect.

Stannis would no longer require his Hand to remain and oversee whatever small fleet Manderly's men had pulled together, and there would be a strong commander on the East Coast. She could redeem herself to the North through service to them, and make use of herself properly afterwards. She would be a full width of Westeros from the Iron Islands.

"Asha, would you accept earning mercy through service to Lord Manderly in his fleet for your redemption, likely in the capacity of Admiral?"

She would be subject to entrapment by the men around her, sellsails or Northmen. She could not run.

"Of course, Your Grace, if Lord Manderly's willing to take me off your hands."

She could not say no either.


	3. Arya

**And here's chapter three; the first one of these from one of my actual favourite characters, so I hope you like it! Unfortunately enough, as much as I wish that I could have a whole book to go of just her POVs and what she'd be doing, I find the single-character stories on this site on a whole to be severely lacking. Ones that focus on just a few characters are easier to follow, but less like the books; I'm aiming to be accurate to George R. R. Martin's styles here, so people's favourite POVs aren't likely to be back to back. :(**

**Also, updates will be slowing. King's Landing chapters are a drag but must be written, and tonnes of stuff is happening elsewhere; I'm thinking about the South and the East. But a bit of the Vale should be coming up after this, though for now...**

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**Arya**

**Servants to the Many-Faced God**

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A wolf howled in the Riverlands, smelling the flesh of meat. Another answered, and another, signalling the position of the pack somewhere ahead of the column of men. Behind them stalked the leader.

Prey had dried up, recently. The pack was large and strong, and it had waited in the woods outside the stone-wall-river-place where the two-legged prey, as it was when it had come from there, stayed, trapped on the bank of the wolves.

They had crossed another river, but this was faster, wider, stronger. She would lose half a pack to swim it.

A small herd had emerged from it, though, on their tame-beasts and with their gleaming sticks. The pack waited further into the darkness, howling. It's leader stood behind.

She was the silent one, she was the biggest, she was in control. The pack followed her only. She had killed and eaten the weaker leaders before her, and she led alone. The tame-beasts she outran with ease. The two-legged she crushed with her jaws.

But now, she waited until the pack had closed in on their prey; not the hunted as the prey thought, but hunters, bred and raised for it and she had made them stronger.

She knew not why they came now, loud and calling and searching, but they would find nowt but pain in the wood of the wolves, as had their pack-mates a short while ago.

Perchance they wanted revenge.

They would receive it.

The leader bounded behind the few stragglers of the group, keeping the pace and, when the gap between the two-legged pack and it's slower members had grown, she came up alongside them.

The first tame-horse she startled into the nearest tree. She set upon it's rider before finishing the unconscious beast.

The second had strayed to the side. Her jaws met its throat and pulled it out in the same instant, and as it collapsed, she crushed the human's uncovered skull with her teeth.

The pack's howls were closer when she'd finished two more, and the other one sped up upon noticing his companions' fate. She trailed him, near-silent.

The man-pack had met the wolf-pack converging on it from three sides. The tame-beasts did not look so tame now. They snorted and looked ready to bolt towards her, until, still shrouded in darkness, she howled.

Then, she growled and moved into the moonlit clearing. Horses ran at the sight, uncontrollable, and wolves bit and pulled them down. Men stood and hit with their sticks, but wolves surrounded and pounced and blood stained the forest floor.

One knight and horse had kept their heads and wits, and fought well; she chewed their heads off herself, after breaking a limb on each of them.

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A rat from a foreign ship had a target. There was a man it had to reach, a long way from the waterfront. This man was a commander past his time, fit for replacing.

The rat snuck through alleys and gutters, knowing the way the same way it knew what to do; some way it didn't know. It ate leftovers discarded on the way, giving in to hunger, but reached the target.

The place was guarded, but nothing was guarded to the small. Holes, windows, he found the place. An old man was lying on his back, sated and asleep, a woman having left previously; her pungent-sweet scent remained.

The rat rolled on the target, thoroughly, for almost a minute, before it's task was deemed done and it left willingly.

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A servant of the Many-Faced God opened her eyes, her task completed. The Sealord of Braavos would receive the gift from any of a number of rats from foreign ships that had been found to maybe carry diseased and contagious vermin. He would receive the death of those he had not saved by limiting trade so as his coffers would not be limited themselves. He had given lives to the Many-Faced God before their time, for sure.

The Maester he had turned away from helping those in pain would not save him now. Many in the city had dead family. Assistance was futile; none would be allowed to live by the people were they to spare the killer the justice he was to be afforded.

A girl, wearing the clothes of any acolyte at the House of Black and White, had received no instruction from the kindly man or Izembaro and thus headed to the streets. Perchance news of interest from some place over land or sea had drifted in on a boat, or from the palace of the Sealord's sickness.

She wore no face but hers, that of a girl named Stark, which a girl called Cat had found one night and hidden. It was easy to hide when one had a face not your own and looked unremarkable, but easier if you could still go unnoticed even as yourself, harder to do as it was. But a girl knew the town.

She made her way over the bridge, at the tail end of a procession for the funeral of some citizen, dead likely from the plague, but 'twas lavisher than most, and she later heard through the window of the Inn of the Green Eel that the First Sword of Braavos had died, that he was the one in the casket.

She had not known the man, but she was sure he was never as good as Syrio Forel had been.

Her apprenticeship with Izembaro was not as she had expected, and was harder than her previous tasks. He was a Faceless Man who chose to accomplish his every task and deed with the same face. He taught the art of blending in wherever you were, no matter your looks; the art of acting, only it was more than that; it was becoming someone else, not portraying. His face, as it was, was wide and plain, his nose small, and he had no teeth but for two near the back.

The first time she had met him, she had glanced around the room twice before noticing the man she had come there to see. He had been standing stationary next to the door, as if he were some kind of ornament or footman or doorman.

He'd told her how people saw what they'd expected to see, didn't look around enough most of the time, didn't keep an ear open in most social situations, and yet when they were alone would glance around looking for anything to catch their interest. "Humans are very easily bored; there has to be a focus to them, be it other people, inside their own head, their actions, or their surroundings. If one can seem on first glance to be a part of those surroundings, and dull, one is safe from notice as one is glanced over in the search for things less dull. However, if one would stand out as an interesting person, why, in some great ballroom or glamorous parade there is no end of interesting people, and there one can remain, unseen. If one is part of a collective, a whole, one must stand out greatly for notice, and copying the airs of those around you means recognition as individual is near-impossible."

She had listened attentively, itching to try, but instead he had spoken more, asking her of situations and how she would choose to get out of them, or to persuade people of her right to be where she was. Many of the questions had reminded her of her time at Harrenhal, and to most she chose acting like a servant or a peasant girl.

However, he was displeased with most of them, even those which had saved her in the past. "A girl draws more questions with her responses when she should always look for less."

"A girl can answer questions."

"A questioning is remembered. Simple serving girls should not be. Faceless Men should not be, no matter their face. You must be able to tell what they want to hear in your very life story, be it yours or not, you must know the responses needed to get what you need. Know those around you to manipulate them. No single response will do for all. Changes are required, subtle, but not needing suspicion from those you would persuade. Be dull, but valid. Happy, but calm, or frustrated but controlled. Pretty, but generic, or ugly and quiet; never stand out."

"I suppose you're going for ugly and quiet," a girl shot back.

"It is my forte, while frustrated and controlled will never be yours."

"Dull but valid works on you too, it seems."

"For all your prettiness, it seems you will never be generic. Perhaps you are not suited to this. Think on it."

His face had turned dull then, uninterested, and he had turned to writing at his desk; a copy of their conversation in a clear, neat hand, as if he were a scribe.

She left, she found her Needle, and she played with cats along the Baraavosi streets.

Now, she had learnt more, of hiding and of hiding in plain sight. She had learnt that rooftops were almost never looked at, up was as good a place as any to go, and better than most, and she had learnt how much posture meant.

A slouch was seen as laziness personified, and those who did so were disregarded. A straight back meant dignity and likely pride. Those who shied away from everything but looked much were observers and should be avoided. And those that were calm and in control were ones to watch from the corner of the eye.

Through such traits, and possibly knowledge of people's previous actions, it was possible to work out in which way it was best to persuade them to your intentions.

After leaving the funeral procession when it was nearly at the harbour, she had hung her head and shoulders in unapproachable grief and let her hair cover her face. People only look deeply if they think there's more to see of the person; a grieving girl was seen, but a girl was not.

A girl sat with her head in her hands, quietly sobbing, in many corners of inns that day. She spoke to none, so some spoke around her. She learnt while leaving the Inn of the Green Eel that the First Sword had died. She learnt at Pynto's that there were Wildlings in the Gift.

And she learnt on the journey from Pynto's to the House of Black and White that a man who had been a brother to a girl and a Lord Commander to the men at the wall had been killed.

A ship that had traded at Eastwatch-by-the-sea had returned to Braavos bearing the news that had come to Eastwatch by raven a few days ago, from Bowen Marsh, the Lord Steward at Castle Black.

Lord Snow had received an insulting message from Ramsay Snow the Bloody Bolton Bastard, and had decided to lead the Wildlings to Winterfell and reclaim it alongside Stannis. He had also decided that men and supplies would be sent North to Hardhome, where Wildlings in their thousands were starving an being preyed upon by the Others. Bowen Marsh, and several others of the Watch, had killed him rather than follow orders that would "destroy them" just for human kindness.

Ser Glendon Hewett, who had charge at Eastwatch while Cotter Pyke had sailed for Hardhome, had been pleased with the news, to hear the sailors tell it. There were no tidings of the Others, nor Hardhome, nor of Jon's wolf, Ghost, and Arya Stark had asked of them all, trying not to let her pain show.

After returning, she stared at Needle for hours, before the sun set. When it did, she frequented the blade outside the House, and cast aside the Braavos façade, Cat of the Canals, she had been previously. She would visit the kindly man as no one.

"What three things have you learnt today?" the man inquired.

"The First Sword of Braavos is dead," no one replied.

"All men must die. And the second thing?"

"Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, has been killed by his own men," stated a girl.

"All men must die, be they unknown, friend, or family. The third thing?"

"A girl has reached her breaking point. She has no family left, no direwolf, and an imposter claims her name. The seat of her house is sat by those who murdered her oldest brother and their family and allies, her homeland is guarded by those who killed her second-oldest brother, one she thought as possibly another brother killed her younger siblings, and her older sister is missing and hunted. She has no family, but she knows how to find her wolf, and her brother's, and Stannis would give her Winterfell and the North would give its allegiance, and she would be the Justice of the North."

"These are not known, or may not be as they seem, or are guesswork," said the kindly man. "A third thing?"

"I'm leaving this place," said Arya of House Stark, "and you cannot stop me."

"Who are you, girl?"

"Arya."

"The first time you have answered that question to me truthfully. Remember that answer, Arya. Had it been a lie, you would remain here. In the House of Black and White, you either find or lose yourself. I am glad for you that you have done the former, and disappointed in you that you did not manage the latter. Nonetheless, you are released." In that moment, the man truly looked kindly.

A girl called Arya bowed, and left the room.

She remembered the man with the face marked by plague had told her that the cost of the training she was undergoing was all that you are and all that you have ever been, but it was through the loss of the last and strongest pillar of her past that she regained her impatience and fiery determination.

The fact that they were all memories now, irreplaceable, meant that honouring their memories and being the person they remembered was all the more important. She did not have the time for Braavosi training beyond what she knew already.

Within an hour she was on a ship headed for Westeros, for the North, for Eastwatch-by-the-sea. She could make Castle Black from there, and find how things lay from one loyal to Jon still, go southwards to Stannis and Winterfell, enlisting help from Last Hearth or the Mountain Clans on the way, in the Stark name. The lords would follow.

From there, fate would choose her path, but she would force it to choose as she had not before.


	4. Jaqen

**Sorry about the wait, and thanks to all those who favourited, reviewed, followed, read, existed, and so on. This one took a while mainly because I was wondering where to take the story on a whole; the next chapter should be introducing a new character, and hopefully he'll go down well; it'll also be showing the state of things in the Red Keep a bit more.**

**Hopefully that'll come soon enough; in the meantime, here's a POV I quite enjoyed writing, from a character I like in an amount probably disproportionate to his actual role. *shrugs***

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"Jaqen H'gar"

No One

The laws of the Many-Faced God were elegant, a man knew. His servants did no unnecessary harm, only speeding what was to come. When ones were taken by the god, their lives were complete. They were released. When the Many-Faced God's wishes, his claims to lives, were denied, his servants would repay him in other lives to those that were saved.

There was a balance to it, as there should be to the world of men. What was taken was given back.

And so it was with this job. One had conspired, and deceived, and stolen lives that were not his due. His chance had passed, untaken. If a man would end a life or spare it, he took unto himself the God's work. Were the life spared by him, the god would use another tool, later. So it was.

This one had killed those under his protection and his alliance, before their time. The many-faced god had used a new tool, one who had originally called a servant to Westeros, to have the servant renew the balance and kill this man. All men must serve. All men must die.

A man had travelled, not long and hard, but slowly, surely. He had left a castle much liked and frequented by the Many-Faced God, past septs that did not look past the faces of their Gods, he had passed unknown by the hill-folk that had given many to the Many-Faced God, and he arrived at a high place as a woman fell from it to the Many-Faced God's realm.

He had stayed there, under the face of a young servant, and he learnt the place and its secrets. On the first day, he learnt that the Lord Protector was called Baelish, that he had a bastard daughter called Alayne, and that the true Lord of the Vale was Robert Arryn, who was sickly, and six.

On the second day, he learnt that the chef's wife was having an affair with a stablehand, that the Lady of the Eyrie had not been killed by the singer Marillion the previous day, and that Alayne Stone, Lord Baelish's bastard, was not Lord Baelish's bastard.

On the third day, he learnt four things; that Alayne Stone was actually Sansa Stark, whose sister he had owed lives to previously and who was the only known heir to the King in the North, that there was a young man in the Vale who would inherit the Eyrie were Robert Arryn to die, that Lord Baelish had loved Sansa's mother Catelyn, and that he had killed the Lady Arryn.

Then, he had all he needed to receive a payment for his job and to balance a wrong.

"A man finds that a Lord needs help."

Petyr Baelish sat up in his bed, alarmed. "Who are you?"

"A man who would help."

"All is good at the Eyrie. Sweet Robert needs to heal, I grant you. Are you a healer?" The man worried, despite his calm face. A man knew of faces.

"A Lord loves a Lady. A Lady was killed, and a man seeks revenge."

"... The singer will leave by the Sky Doors, have no fear."

The man could tell the lie just by the pause. "Not that Lady."

"You would kill the Freys, then?"

"For a price, any may die. State their names, and a man will tell you the price."

Baelish took little time thinking. He had considered his list a long while, the man knew. "All the Freys in the line of succession down to Walder Vance, who is a squire, who should be brought to me. This includes Lord Walder, his first son Stevron's eldest son Ryman and Ryman's son Edwyn and Edwyn's daughter Walda, Ryman's son Black Walder, the daughter of Ryman's deceased third son Petyr, Perra, and Walder Vance's older sister, Marianne."

"It shall be done."

"When?"

"A man cannot guarantee such a thing, but you shall know when it is done."

"The price?" The Lord was becoming confident in his demands now. Haggling and questioning he knew well. But a man did not haggle when he knew his price.

"For the old Lord a hundred thousand crowns. For each of the other five a hundred and eighty."

The Lord reeled back, doing the sums in his head furiously. "A million? A million crowns?!"

"If a Lord wants these people dead, this is what he must pay. Were the old Lord in his prime, he would be twice as much and twice as much again. A man has accepted the task. Will a Lord accept the price for his love?"

The answer was not long in coming. "Aye."

"An initial payment of a quarter of the total may be made now if you wish, the rest to be made payable upon completion, or half of the money now and the rest to be paid in regular instalments. What does a Lord choose?"

"How large are the instalments?"

"The little prices are fifty thousand every month, or a hundred thousand every two."

"Interest?"

"Would make a total of roughly fifty thousand more, going by instalments."

"And were I to pay a quarter now, and the rest on completion?"

The man smiled. "No interest. A man will not charge for the time he takes."

"Two hundred and fifty thousand crowns is yours, an additional seven hundred and fifty when you return with the Freys dead."

"A deal is done." A man and a Lord shook. "If a Lord would like, as he mentioned, the squire Walder Vance brought to him, it should cost him more. A man will choose the exact price when he returns. A troublesome boy is more trouble."

A Lord was left alone after that.

The journey was not long this time. A man had a horse, and a man had a job. He changed his face. Now it was young and strong, like a hedge knight riding to his liege. His saddlebags could fit armour and a sword, but held only his knife and several bags of coins to take to Braavos.

This time, towards the end of the journey, a group of clansmen encountered a man, but there were only three, and their time until a visit from the Many-Faced God was shorter than they might have hoped.

It was a dark day when a man reached the Twins, and there was snow on the ground. The air was cold. It had been colder four days ago, on the way down from the Eyrie, and colder still when a man, young, chose to climb the Titan in Braavos in an attempt to prove his courage, before the man learnt that courage had no bearing on the dead, or the servants of the Many-Faced God who provided such death, and then the man was not so young.

For three days, a man in servant's garb and face walked the corridors.

On the first day, he learnt the locations of all his targets.

On the second, he learnt the routines of all the guards.

On the third, he associated himself with Walder Vance, and learnt that a boy was gullible and pliable and unobtrusive.

On the morning of the fourth day, Edwyn and Ryman, out hunting, were set upon by a pack of wolves from the South. The Pack's larger leader tore their horses from under them and ripped out Ryman's throat herself.

At midday, Walda and Perra and Marianne grieved and sobbed and toasted to their fathers with wine from Lord Walder's personal storehouse. Despite being fully bottled, it was somehow poisoned. Their family grieved.

Black Walder was standing on one of the castle's ramparts when he fell and broke his neck. Whether or not a neck should have broken when he landed at the angle he did, none asked, shocked as they were.

Walder Vance, now the heir to the Twins, was discovered to be missing an hour later. A messenger who brought the news to old Lord Walder Frey found him dead, of a heart attack in his old age.

In the confusion, another wrong had been righted; a tall and strong man headed quietly North as his cell's guardians had been engaged in struggling for position against their brothers, cousins, nephews and uncles.

A hedge knight and his new squire had ridden out of the gates an hour and a half after Lord Frey's demise, unknown, unquestioned, as Freys fought Freys for temporary control. The Many-Faced God had his due from the Twins.

Next, his due would be taken at the Eyrie.


	5. Cersei

**This one was a tough chapter: I've never liked King's Landing, and research on several matters was required too. Hopefully the next should be better; for now, my first Cersei chapter!**

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Cersei

The title of Queen Mother held little authority in the Red Keep now, Cersei found, as a servant denied her access to Tommen's rooms.

Lord Mace Tyrell was the Lord Regent, Margaery Tyrell acting as Queen, the pretty face standing beside her father's decisions with her pretty little head bowed in acceptance, repentance, modesty, purity, the very picture of youthful innocence and detestable beauty that hid a heart of poison. She had won the people, won King's Landing, and the Small Council too was under her and her Father's influence since Kevan's murder.

Paxter Redwyne, rather than taking his fleet to defeat the Ironborn plunging into Tyrell lands upriver, was setting a course for the Capital, intent on securing political power for his master rather than securing the Kingdom against its enemies as was his duty to his King. The Master of Ships cared not for using them.

Lord Randyll Tarly was one of those bannersmen that were infuriatingly competent and loyal. Experience and victories under his belt, he was the only practical man the Tyrells had. He would be swayed little by gold or promises, nor any longer was there a chance of winning him with offers of greater posts; few had more influence than the Hand of the King, or the Regent in this case.

The replacement for Grand Maester Pycelle, killed alongside Kevan, was undecided. There was no news from the Maesters at Oldtown, but the raven messages would take time to be sure, as would the arrival of whoever was chosen. Currently, there was no advantage to be seen in that area.

Ser Harys Swyft, Master of Coin, had departed on Lord Tyrell's orders two days past in an attempt to secure a deal in Braavos. That left no Lannister presence on the small council as they "debated" what they should do with regards to reappointment of members of the council, or so they claimed.

The Tyrell flowers permeated the Red Keep like weeds, every second passer-by in a gold cloak or flowery silks with the Tyrell crest. Gone were the days of Lions and Stags. The Red Keep was fast becoming the red of roses, and there was nothing Cersei could do.

Of course, there was one more factor now. Myrcella had returned from Dorne, her beautiful face scratched and scarred, in the company of Balon Swann and the newest member of the Small Council, taking the place of Oberyn Martell the Red Viper of Dorne, his own daughter Nymeria Sand.

"Would you deny a mother the right to visit her son, servant? I am no threat to him, I can assure you. What could I possibly attempt, what would I attempt? To take the life of my one son after the death of his brother?" But the stoic servant was quiet and controlled, as much so as Ned Stark had been, though he was for sure far too tanned to be a Northener, and wore Tyrell colours.

"Your Grace, I am under strict orders, and would lose my post were I to fail at it. I doubt you can threaten worse."

Before Cersei could slap the man, the only bastard in the keep with more authority that her had stepped in. "Harold, isn't it? Let the woman in. I'll watch her for any misdeeds, fear not."

Cersei turned, a picture of gratitude on her face. "Lady Nymeria, my thanks."

Nymeria Sand smiled. "Lead on, Your Grace." The servant had stepped aside. Cersei advanced into her son's chambers.

Tommen and his sister were sitting on the floor, playing with the three kittens and conversing quietly. They jumped up upon seeing their mother, and ran and hugged her. Myrcella got there first.

She had been scarred, cheek to ear, but Cersei was grateful that it had not been any worse, considering the circumstances her traitor of an uncle, Tyrion, had thrown her into. Myrcella's hug was tight.

Tommen was less enthusiastic, perchance, but he looked better; his golden hair was healthy and strong, his face unmarked, an that made up for it.

Myrcella hugged Nymeria, too, the grace of the Princess's red dress contrasting with the flowing and purple robes worn by the bastard who was of high Volantene descent on her mother's side.

She was nevertheless someone of a type Cersei would not normally associate with, but the Sand girl had shown herself an enemy of House Tyrell upon her arrival.

It was one of the few recent courtly occasions Cersei had been present for, unfortunately, but the look on Mace Tyrell's face was worth his weight in gold.

Cersei, permitted to greet her daughter, had been at the dockside with the court just two days after Lord Kevan's death. Myrcella had disembarked first, and run to her waiting mother; Cersei had held her in her arms and told her to stay safe and be careful, but couldn't help but note the exchange to her side.

"Are you Lord Mace Tyrell?"

"Lord of Highgarden and Lord Regent are my other titles, but yes. And who might this fair lady be?"

"Lady Nymeria of Dorne, the seventh member of your Small Council, however many you may have now."

That was the moment when Cersei wanted Mace Tyrell's face cast in stone.

"Mace, you seem quite unwell. Perchance your predecessor as Hand did not keep you informed on my imminent arrival? A pity, truly."

At this point Lord Mace found his voice. "Indeed, my Lady, I was uninformed. I do deeply regret not hearing of the circumstances that led to such an appointment?"

"The offer was not made for me, but for my father, and since his death I have come to take his place. One of Dorne should take the place of a Dornishman, do you not agree?"

"As this appointment has not to my knowledge been sanctioned by the King or myself, Lady Nymeria, I am afraid I cannot-"

Nymeria's tone was light. "I'm sure you've heard of my sisters; the Sand Snakes are somewhat notorious. My elder sister Obara was taught revenge and how to weild a spear by the Red Viper himself, and she thirsts for war, wishing for command of one of Dorne's armies. I join your Council, Dorne doesn't join your enemies, and there is still but one army ravaging the Reach."

Lord Mace then made a face that came a very close second place to the aforementioned.

"Thank you for your gracious acceptance, Lord Hand." With those words and a sly grin, the woman and a small group of Dornishmen strode straight past Lord Tyrell and towards the ascent to the Red Keep.

Since then, the Dornish woman had been scouring the Red Keep and it's occupants, and knew her way as well as any and better than most. In the small council, Cersei had heard Lord Mace complain once, she rarely ceased questioning, her suggestions were adept, and she seemed to all the world extraordinarily and infuriatingly suited for her post.

After that, she would bear "Lady Nym" and her lesser charms gladly, for she was doing what Cersei could not, though the slight was great on Cersei to be sure. But her time would come again.

Of the three conversations Cersei had engaged Nymeria Sand in, each had wrangled some small information from the other, but Cersei had won the influence with she who Lord Tyrell feared, enough that she had ensured the return to her side of Taena Merryweather, who would be arriving maybe the next day, or the next after that.

After inquiring after the activities of her children, and avoiding Myrcella's questions on the matter of Trystane Martell, the Queen and the Master of Laws exited the room side by side. As they walked the corridor to Cersei's chambers, she turned to the Dornishwoman. "Might I inquire as to what your purpose was in visiting the corridors leading to the King's presence, my Lady?"

"You may." Nymeria made a sharp turn into a stairwell, leading down. In a small alcove one-and-a-half staircases down, she whirled in, pulling the queen with her by the arm.

Cersei straightened her bodice and pulled the trail of her dress close. "Well?" She demanded imperiously, even as she knew how easily the woman she knew had knives could kill her or threaten her.

A grin blossomed onto Nymeria Sand's lips. She looked almost villainous. "A pair of surprises await you in your chambers, my Queen. I suspect they should please you."

"Then pray tell, why accost me in such a manner?" Cersei set her face disapprovingly.

"I like surprises, Your Grace. I find they give a good measure of any person. Forgive me if I impose myself overmuch, my Queen." The grin had grown, and Cersei suspected it was growing more as the woman led her out, along routes that she had not travelled but led directly to her chambers in three quarters the normal time.

Her doormen, Sparrows as always, informed her of presences within, and that they had seen fit to expel the three little septons that had been attending her from the room, with some subtle threat of force. This did little to allay any of Cersei's fears on what exactly the Lady Nymeria was leading her into; the woman was dangerous, and she trusted her little.

Upon Cersei's entry to the chambers, Lady Taena Merryweather turned towards the doorway and uttered a delighted gasp. "Your Grace! I knew not when to expect you!"

Cersei had missed her confidante, and could not help but smile as she and Taena embraced. "I had expected you tomorrow at best, so forgive me my surprise even as Lady Nymeria Sand here delights in it."

"My Lady," Taena curtsied, releasing Cersei and turning to the Dornishwoman. "It is an honour to make your acquaintance."

"And I have enjoyed meeting you too, Lady Merryweather. How was your journey from Longtable? Did you perchance meet my second surprise for her Grace?"

"And brought a third, I fear," the Myrish Lady said, eyes twinkling. She turned to the bedchamber, but before she could issue a summons, a young man of around seventeen followed by a boy of around six cast open the door and entered.

"Your Grace, Lady Nymeria, my Lady aunt, I am Fera, and I humbly present to you the young Russell Merryweather, Lady Taena's son."

Fera was small in build but not height, and he wore a sword on his left hip that was thinner than any she had before seen of it's length. He has an accent that spoke of the Free Cities, but not any of the prevailing accents of any single one, suggesting time spent travelling and learning languages. He dressed in odd fabrics, but practical styles.

Russell was younger than Tommen, and seemed to take after his mother in build and in a certain decisiveness of nature sometimes not present in Tommen, as shown by his fast steps ahead of Fera and his next few words.

"Hello your Grace, Lady Nymeria, Mother. Please may I meet the King now?"

"He has learnt his manners well," Cersei remarked to Taena, who accepted the praise with a gracious nod. To Russell, she said, "I am sure that King Tommen would be delighted to make your acquaintance, Russell. As there are still some hours left in the day, perhaps Lady Nymeria might take you there now."

At this, Russell turned with hopeful eyes to the mentioned Lady, whose robes billowed around her as she quickly knelt to be on Russell's level. She smiled graciously. "May I call you Russell, young Lord, if you will agree to call me Lady Nym?"

Russell nodded eagerly. "Certainly, Lady Nym. Will we see the King now? I've always wanted to meet one."

Nymeria offered him her hand, which he took as she rose and led him from the room, inclining her head to Cersei and Taena as she went, while smiling a little in Fera's direction.

After they had left, Lady Merryweather turned to Fera. "I have not spoken of you to Her Grace Queen Cersei before, nephew, so, would you introduce yourself, perchance with tales of your exploits in Essos?"

Fera's nod as he turned to the queen was somehow elegant. "Mine is not such a glamorous tale as my aunt would have you believe, your Grace. I grant you, I am well-travelled. I have stayed not long in Westeros, the last time I visited my aunt here being four years past, on the occasion of my thirteenth nameday. For five years before then, I travelled alongside an older brother of mine as he and a former First Sword of Braavos, Syrio Forel, travelled Essos."

There he paused. "I received quiet word a year or two past that Syrio had died, here, and have not heard of my brother Tarma since my last visit here, four years past as I said. He was not sure of his path when last we spoke.'

"Syrio and Tarma taught me the sword, such as they could, while we sailed. Since then, I have kept in practise duelling and sparring with swordsmen of Pentos, Myr, and Braavos in particular. It was after that that I decided I wanted to see my family, such as it is, once more, and after I was directed along the Roseroad by Lady Nymeria, I met Taena half a day or so from the city."

"And you are here from loyalty to her, then?" Cersei inquired.

"Indeed, Your Grace," Fera replied. "Just so. I apologise if my accent, such as it is, is tough to comprehend on occasion; the Free Cities are an area of various dialects to learn and to understand, and one must needs adjust one's speech accordingly."

"Indeed." Cersei grew slightly weary of this man's manners and talk. "Would you perchance know why Lady Nymeria thought you an interesting surprise for me, Fera?" What game was the Dornishwoman playing at?

"I fear I know not, Your Grace. I would consider myself unremarkable."

Taena spoke up then. "I think you underestimate yourself, nephew. I doubt not that many extraordinary people have thought less of themselves than others did."

"For some such a thing would be quite the feat," Cersei remarked, thinking of Tyrion. The Imp was still missing, and a suspect of the killing of Kevan too, but Cersei was beginning to doubt he could be that daring.

"But some manage it for sure, Your Grace. Forgive me if I aggravate your loss, but was not Kevan Lannister such a man?" Fera inquired.

"While my uncle was respected well enough, and thought less of himself than my father did as well, I know not his own opinion. He turned down Handship easily enough to begin with, though, more fool him."

"Some believe others more suited. Or perchance he may have foreseen whichever events led to his untimely death. Is an investigation ongoing?" Fera asked, causing Cersei to frown.

"Servants have been questioned on such matters as pertain to Kevan, and no evidence has been provided as yet. The Lady Nymeria herself has been investigating, so I have been told." This person was wasting her time. "Any further questions should be addressed to her. If you would leave, I would like to speak to Lady Taena. You can show yourself the door, I trust?"

"I would ask one more question of you, Your Grace."

"Go on, then." Soon he would leave, or pay. She had already almost forgotten his name.

"Your Grace, I would say that a series of questionings and an investigation of a murder are different things entirely. The Lady Nymeria has informed me that Lord Kevan's blood was warmer than Pycelle's when they both were found, yet Pycelle had supposedly sent for Kevan. Would it not be possible that whosoever summoned Kevan to Pycelle's chambers was in league with the killer and thus someone we should find, that it could be silently seen who they meet with furtively, that they could be arrested on suspicion of murder and then questioned accordingly?"

Cersei's eyes widened. "And if we are led to the Imp's hideaway..."

"Then you yourself should decide the sentence on your smaller Kingslaying brother, Your Grace." Fera bowed.

"See to it that such an... investigation is begun immediately. If any attempt to question you, inform them that you wield my full authority. Failing that, invoke Lady Nymeria's name."

"It shall be done." With those words, Fera left her chambers.

Cersei turned to Lady Taena. "An interesting character, your nephew. Is he smart, would you say? Cunning?"

"For his age, my Lady, I have met few with greater poise in all they do than him; I have spoken to him truly only in this last day, but from his relative youth when he was but thirteen I knew he had a certain intelligence about him. He thinks differently to most, but that may be a good thing, that he may do what they cannot."

Later that night, when the elderly septa was asleep at the Queen's bedside, Taena said, "It is a shame, truly, that I have not yet took the knee for my Queen since our reconciliation. I would not waste this chance, if my Queen allows it."

It had been long since Cersei had had a man to bed, and Taena provided a welcome relief between her legs.


	6. Jaime

**This one took a while and is relatively short due to plotting issues. I've been writing this story sporadically as it is, and deciding which POV would be best and what to do in it becomes an increasingly strenuous process. I hope I've portrayed the characters well enough in this, and that I haven't disappointed with the length... This one should be continued soon enough; however, the next chapter will likely be short too. Apologies in advance!**

**And this part does feel a little like begging... But if any of you could tell me what you think of the story so far I would much appreciate it; and I may be prompted to release the next chapter by, shall we say, Tuesday? Hope you do, and onto the chapter!**

* * *

Jaime

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It was not without trepidation that he followed Brienne through the Riverlands. It would take several days of travel, she'd said, and he'd packed accordingly, but if he'd expected a similar journey to that they'd taken from Riverrun, in which her irritation with him had shone through clearly and so delighted him, he was to be disappointed. The wench would barely speak, staring ahead as she walked ahead regardless of him.

It was on the second day that he had simply stopped walking at the bottom of a steep hill, one of rather many in the more forested lands, of streams rather than rivers, where things were less cultivated. Brienne had climbed most of the way up the slope before realising anything was amiss, and had adopted a stormy glare when she reached the bottom again.

"If you intend to take longer than is necessary making trouble for me, do consider our limited food and money resources, that I hold most of each, and that I could now beat you in a swordfight any time I so chose. I'll carry you if I must."

Jaime had opened his mouth to answer back, about how odd it would look for someone to be carrying a potentially valuable hostage to be seen walking across the countryside, but had been whacked over the head with the pommel of Oathkeeper and woken up an hour later on the other side of the hill and two miles from it.

He hadn't mounted such an outright challenge since, but had succeeded in slowing the punishing pace by dawdling and requesting frequent stops; he'd used the excuse of being tired, which she threw back in his face when he requested sparring practise in the evenings.

Four days after they'd set out they camped in a deserted village's empty holdfast. Brienne stated that it would likely take them another four days at their pace, and headed into the bushes and trees that surrounded the buildings to collect firewood while Jaime set about exploring the settlement.

Most of the houses seemed to be small agricultural workers' houses, and they had few supplies to be seen; those that hadn't been taken by force had likely been brought with the farmers as they moved. The small alehouse, however, had a few barrels left, and Jaime had a few quick tankards before he continued his search.

It wasn't long after that, however, that he heard a quick and high-pitched shriek that was quickly cut off from the direction of the holdfast, or, more precisely, the woods behind it.

He stumbled slightly as he sprinted in that direction, but made decent enough time all things considered.

He found Brienne and the Blackfish standing over Oathkeeper, which lay abandoned on the ground, as Ser Brynden's sword rested soundly at Brienne's neck. It took Jaime several moments to comprehend the situation fully, and by the time he had, the hilt of Brynden Tully's sword was whacking him around the side of his head before he could go for his weapon.

Before he collapsed, he saw Brienne knocked to the ground as she reached for Oathkeeper, then nothing.


End file.
